by Lars Kepler
Rocky is slumped on the creaking folding chair, his jaw has relaxed and his eyelids look heavy.
‘All you’re doing is listening to my voice and you feel fine, everything is nice and safe …’
Joona is standing next to the window looking out at the pet cemetery. His jacket is open and the butt of his pistol shimmers red against his chest.
‘In a little while I’m going to count backwards from two hundred, and with each number you’re going to sink deeper and deeper into relaxation. And when I tell you to open your eyes, you’re going to open your eyes and remember every detail from the first time you met the man you call the preacher,’ Erik says.
Rocky remains still, with his lower lip drooping slightly and his huge hands on his thighs. He looks like he’s asleep, dreaming.
Erik counts down in a deep, soporific voice, his eyes monitoring Rocky’s breathing, the movement of his bulging stomach.
Parallel to the actual hypnosis process, Erik sees himself sink through murky water. It’s so dark with mud that he can barely see Rocky in front of him, as air bubbles rise from his beard and his hair sways in the current.
Erik breaks the sequence of numbers, skips a few, but keeps counting down at an imperceptibly slowing rate.
He knows he needs to find precise memories.
The water gets even darker the deeper he goes. The current is stronger, pulling at his clothes from the side. The whole time, Rocky looks like he’s undergoing grotesque metamorphoses in the tugging, muddy water, as if his face were made from loose sacking.
‘Eighteen, seventeen … thirteen, twelve … soon you’re going to open your eyes,’ Erik says, and watches Rocky’s slow breathing. ‘There’s nothing to worry about here, nothing dangerous …’
112
Rocky has entered such a deep trance that his heart rate is lower than during deep sleep, his breathing is like that of a hibernating animal, but at the same time parts of the brain can be activated to a state of extreme focus.
It’s very nearly time to make him turn his attention to the preacher, and try to explain what he’s seen, try to dig out the crystal-clear memories that are lying preserved, right next to dreams and deliriums.
Rocky’s head is lolling forward and his dirty hair is scattered with pine needles after the hike through the forest.
‘Four, three, two, one, and now you open your eyes and remember exactly where you first met the unclean preacher …’
Through the streaming brown water Erik sees Rocky shake his head, but in reality he is sitting on the chair with his eyes open and trying to moisten his lips with his tongue.
His stomach is moving in time with his slow breathing, his chin lifts and his eyes stare straight through time and matter.
Erik thinks that he needs to repeat his words and include a subtle command to get him to start talking.
‘As soon as you feel ready, you can … tell me what you see.’
Rocky licks his cracked lips.
‘The grass is white … crunching underfoot,’ he says slowly. ‘A black veil flutters from the top of the staff … and small snowflakes are drifting to the ground …’
He starts muttering something Erik can’t make out.
‘Listen to my voice and tell me what you remember,’ he reminds him.
Rocky’s forehead is wet with sweat, he stretches out one leg and the chair creaks under his weight.
‘The light is the colour of chalk,’ he says quietly. ‘Falling through the windows in the deep alcoves … Against a gold-leaf ceiling hangs the defeated saviour … together with the other criminals.’
‘You’re inside a church now?’
Deep down in the fast-flowing, dirty water, Rocky nods in response. His eyes are open wide and his hair is floating to the right of his head.
‘Which church is it?’ Erik asks.
He can hear his own voice tremble, and tries to force himself to be calm, to find a tranquillity within the hypnotic resonance.
‘The preacher’s church.’
‘What’s it called?’ Erik asks, feeling his heart start to beat faster.
Rocky’s mouth moves slightly, but the only sound that comes out is a few clicks from his lips. Erik leans forward over his shoulder and hears the slow exhalation, the voice coming from deep in his throat.
‘Sköld-inge,’ he says groggily.
‘Sköldinge Church,’ Erik repeats.
Rocky nods, leans his head back and forms a soundless word with his lips. Erik exchanges a quick glance with Joona. They’ve got what they need. He ought to bring Rocky out of his deep trance now, but can’t help asking another question.
‘Is the unclean preacher there?’
Rocky smiles sleepily and raises a weary hand as if to point at the tools on the wall of the little shed.
‘Can you see him?’ Erik persists.
‘In the church,’ Rocky whispers as his head lolls forward again.
Over by the streaked window Joona is starting to look stressed. Perhaps some visitors have arrived in the pet cemetery.
‘Tell me what you can see,’ Erik says.
Rocky trembles, and a drop of sweat falls from the tip of his nose.
‘I see the old priest … With rouge over the stubble on his drooping cheeks … the lipstick, and his stupid expression, morose and silent …’
‘Go on.’
‘Ossa … ipsius in pace …’
Rocky whispers to himself, his face twitches and he shifts uneasily on the creaking folding chair. Flakes of green paint fall on to the chipboard floor. Joona moves backwards and silently draws his pistol.
‘Do you know what his name is?’ Erik asks. ‘Say what his name is, loud enough for me to hear.’
‘The ugly old priest … with his scrawny arms, covered in tracks from all the fucking junk he’s injected over the years,’ Rocky says, and his head jerks to one side. ‘Cloudy from bleeding under the skin and wrecked veins, but now he’s wearing his snow-white surplice, no one’s seen anything, no one knows what’s going on … his sister and daughter by his side, his closest colleagues …’
‘Are there other priests in the church?’
‘The pews are full of priests, row after row after row …’
Even though Joona is very quietly telling him to bring the hypnosis to an end, Erik urges Rocky to go deeper.
‘Down to a place where there are only real memories … I’m going to count down from ten … and when I get to zero, you’ll be in Sköldinge Church, and …’
Rocky stands up, his head jerks, his eyes roll backwards and he collapses over the chair. He hits the floor, his head striking the bags of compost, and his feet twitch spasmodically. His body arches, as if he’s trying to do the crab. His top slides up and he’s gurgling gutturally with pain as his mouth gradually stretches open and his neck pulls back. His spine creaks. Erik hurries over and moves tools and equipment out of his reach.
The floor thuds as Rocky rolls on to his side, and a moment later his epileptic attack switches to chronic cramps. Erik kneels down and holds both hands under Rocky’s big head to stop him hurting himself.
His legs are kicking and jerking hard, crashing his heels down on the floor. Joona is holding his gun close to his body and looking at Erik with icy grey eyes.
‘You need to find a new hiding place,’ he says. ‘I saw police officers in the woods by the school, they’ve probably had another tip-off, otherwise they wouldn’t be here again. They’ll be bringing in dogs if they haven’t already done so, and searching with helicopters.’
Rocky’s attack is fading, but he’s still breathing fast and one of his legs jerks a few more times.
Erik rolls him gently on to his side. Rocky blinks. He’s soaked with sweat as he lets out a tired cough.
‘You had an epileptic fit while you were hypnotised,’ Erik explains.
‘God,’ he sighs.
‘Erik, you have to go, get as far away as you can, and hide,’ Joona says again.
113
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Erik quickly drinks some water, wipes his mouth, opens the door cautiously and looks out at the pet cemetery, then leaves the shed. Without looking back, he walks along the path between the trees and the little graves. When he reaches the forest he starts to walk faster. He gets to a wider path and runs for a while.
He can hear dogs barking over towards the school. Erik leaves the path and heads into denser forest instead. He forces his way through pine thickets, scratching his cheek and one eyelid and making them sting. He crouches down and makes his way through the trees, through spiders’ webs and over glossy fungi and mushrooms.
He’s so out of breath now that his body is dripping with sweat. The ground slopes down steeply in front of him. The barking is getting closer and he can hear police officers shouting instructions to their dogs.
Erik gets a stitch and presses his hand hard against his side, and carries on running through the forest, which has suddenly opened up. He can see reeds and bulrushes between the trees, and just has time to detect an acrid smell of marshes and fermentation before one foot sinks into the wet moss. He can hear the sound of a helicopter further away over the treetops.
Erik hurries forward but the ground feels like it’s rocking, water rises around his feet, up over his ankles, and he realises he can’t keep going across the bog. He needs to turn back, but sinks deeper and almost falls. He leans one hand against a tree trunk. The cool moisture is rising out of the ground, and there’s a sucking sound as the wet moss lets go of his foot. He has to crawl back, getting his knees wet and cold. He eventually reaches firm ground and starts running.
A dragonfly flashes past, and he sees a white deer’s skull lying next to a rotten log.
He jumps across a furrow full of deep, brown water, with a layer of black leaves at the bottom. Without looking back he runs into the forest once more. Twigs snap under his feet and after a while he can’t run any further, and walks as fast as he can instead. He holds larger branches aside with his hands and lowers his head to protect himself from twigs.
The dog patrol is closer now, their barks echoing tinnily like thunder.
They’ve picked up his scent, soon they’ll have caught up with him.
A strong impulse to just lie flat on his stomach and give up, hand himself over to the police overwhelms him. Imagine, this could all be over, he could be warm again, allowed to rest and start to focus on what’s happened, and whoever has done this to him.
I’m going to give up now, he thinks, and stops, his heart pounding. There are no hiding places in the forest.
Then he remembers Nestor getting shot straight through his chest.
The calls are drawing nearer, a hunting team surrounding their prey.
Erik goes cold inside.
He has to try to reach the buildings by the ski slope, carry on round the bog in a wide arc, then find his way out through the forest.
He sets off running again, dodging between the trunks, through dense undergrowth. Twigs scratch at his face, arms and legs.
The dogs are barking frantically behind him.
He’s so out of breath that his throat feels raw, and he knows he has no chance of outrunning the dogs if they’ve been set loose.
Dry pine cones crunch beneath his feet. Flowering heather brushes his legs. The ground is sloping up now, and the lactic acid in his muscles makes his calves feel tight and heavy.
A tall rock face covered in sphagnum moss and lichen rises up between the trees. He keeps running and starts to climb, forcing himself upwards when the moss starts to slip beneath him and he begins to slide and ends up scraping his hands to stop himself.
When he’s finally at the top he lies down, flat out. His heart pounds against the rock beneath him. He wipes the sweat from his eyes and sees the ochre-coloured housing blocks in Björkhagen above the trees. A crow caws and shuffles clumsily at the top of a fir. Below him, not far away, on the edge of the marsh, he can see the police officers circling round with their dogs straining at their leads. The police are talking into their radios and shouting to each other, and pointing out across the bog. Suddenly one of the dogs signals that it’s picked up a scent. It turns back into the forest, following his trail through the trees. Its leash stretches tight and the dog starts barking loudly.
Erik shuffles backwards and hears the helicopter approaching. He crouches down and starts to run, aware that he has to put some distance between him and the dog-patrol. His legs tremble with the exertion as he runs sideways down the slope, into denser forest again. He follows a path and emerges on to a running track covered with damp bark chippings. A woman in a pink tracksuit is standing still, stretching her muscles, and he hesitates briefly before running past her. Her neck and chest are sweaty. She has a distant look on her face and he sees that she’s listening to music on her headphones. Just as he passes her she looks up at him. Her face stiffens and she looks away a little too quickly. He realises that she’s recognised him, and sees her start to move in the opposite direction out of the corner of his eye.
He carries on round the next bend and stops in front of a map of the nature reserve. A red dot at the bottom marks Sickla Park, where he is now. He looks along the route of the Sörmland Trail, at the running tracks, marshes, watercourses and lakes, then decides to carry on down towards the water at Sicklasjön.
Erik takes long strides across a patch of tall blueberries, then runs straight into the pathless forest.
Dog patrols are approaching from several directions now. He forces his way through a thicket and catches his jacket on a branch. Erik can feel himself starting to panic, tears the cloth loose, and stumbles out into a clearing. He’s so out of breath that he bends double for a few moments, spits, then carries on through the trees.
114
Erik runs past a fallen tree and carries on through the forest as he hears the barking of the dogs echo between the tree trunks.
After half a kilometre or so he reaches a stream. The bottom is covered with red stone, and the water shimmers brown with iron.
Erik steps into the ice-cold water and wades along the stream, hoping the dogs will lose his scent for a few minutes.
He wishes he could phone Jackie to tell her that he’s innocent. He can’t bear the thought of her believing that he’s a murderer. The media and social networking sites must be full of exaggerated accusations, details from his life, things from long ago that are now being dragged up as proof of his guilt.
Erik tries to wade faster but slips on a stone, falls and hits his knee on the bottom, and lets out a gasp. Cold and pain shoot up through his bones, up into his spine and neck.
He stands up and tries to run. The stones slide and slip beneath his feet, his clothes are heavy and the water foams up around him.
He reaches a bend. The banks are steeper here, the water-channel narrower and faster ahead of him.
The trees lean over the water and he has to bend down beneath their branches. He carries on wading as the stream passes through thicker forest. He can no longer hear the dogs, just the water lapping around his legs.
He makes his way round another bend and decides to get out of the stream. Dripping with water, Erik scrambles out of the water and hurries through the forest on squelching shoes. Exhaustion and his clinging clothes mean that he keeps stumbling.
Up ahead he can see the shimmering water of the long, thin Sicklasjön. He sinks down behind a large rock, pushing past the narrow trunks of a clump of rowan trees, panting so hard that his chest hurts.
This is hopeless, he thinks.
It’s over, I haven’t got anywhere to go.
He has loads of acquaintances, people he socialises with, colleagues of many years’ standing, a few good friends, but no one he can call right now.
He’s pretty sure that Simone would be willing to help, but she’s probably being watched. And Benjamin would do whatever he could, he knows that, but Erik would rather die than put his son in any danger.
There are only a few people he knows he could call.
Joona, Nelly, and maybe Jackie.
If Jackie has gone to see her sister, perhaps he could borrow her flat – assuming she doesn’t believe what the papers have been saying.
Erik looks at his phone. It’s only got 4 per cent of its battery charge left. He doesn’t want to put Nelly at risk, but he calls her number anyway.
If her phone’s being monitored then that’s that, but if he’s going to stand any chance at all he has to take the risk. He’s completely surrounded out here, he has no other option.
The sound of the helicopter clatters in the distance, then all he can hear is the wind in the treetops. His phone crackles and he hears the ringing tone, and then there’s a click.
‘Nelly,’ she answers in a calm voice.
‘It’s me,’ he says. ‘Can you talk?’
‘I don’t know, I think so,’ she says. ‘If this counts as talking …’
‘Nelly, listen, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I need help.’
‘What’s going on, really?’ she asks.
‘I didn’t do the things they’re saying about me, I’ve got no idea what this is all about.’
‘Erik, I know, I know you’re innocent,’ she says. ‘But can’t you just hand yourself in to the police? Say you surrender, I’ll support you, be a witness, anything.’
‘They’ll shoot me the moment they catch sight of me. You’ve no idea what—’
‘I understand how you feel,’ she interrupts. ‘But doesn’t it just get even worse the longer you wait? The police are everywhere—’
‘Nelly—’
‘They’ve taken your computer, they’ve packed your whole office into boxes, they’re outside our house in Bromma, they’re at the Karolinska, and—’
‘Nelly, I need to stay in hiding for a while, there are no other options, but I want you to know that I’ll understand if you can’t help me.’
‘I love adventures,’ she says sarcastically.
‘Please, Nelly … there’s no one else I can ask.’
He can hear the dogs barking again. Closer now.
‘I can’t get involved,’ she says quietly. ‘You can see that, it would cause problems for Martin, but …’
